Sherlock: When They Cry
by Pinefresh65
Summary: Sherlock and John are sent to the small town of Riverview to investigate the town's darkest secret: Every year, a member of the town is killed, and another mysteriously disappears. Will they be able to solve the case before they become the next victims?
1. Prologue

**Notes:**

**This is pretty much the storyline of an anime called 'Higurashi no naku koro ni' or 'Higurashi when they cry'. But I have added in my own ideas etc. And this is obviously Sherlock-ified.**

**So... Disclaimer:  
Most of the victims and the name of the town belong to the creators of The Sims 3.  
The basic idea of the story (the curse and it's symptoms etc.) and some of the main events belong to the creators of Higurashi.  
The characters from Sherlock belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  
Everything else (e.g. details, a lot of the storyline, living OC's) belong to me.**

**The quotes (in italics) are from the movie Sucker punch.** **Enjoy!**

* * *

"M- Mycroft?"

_And finally, this question: The mystery of whose story it will be, of who draws the curtain, of who sets the stage._

"Sherlock? Did something happen?"

"Uh…" Sherlock's voice came out in a wheeze.

"What happened?"

_Who is it that chooses our steps in the dance, who drives us mad, lashes us with whips and crowns us with victory when we survive the impossible? _

"Je suis d-désolé… mon frère...ˮ Sherlock rasped into the phone, leaning heavily on the now bloodied wall of the house. He slid down and landed on the crimson-soaked carpet with a slight thump.

_Who is it that does these things? _

There was silence.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 01**  
_In which it could be dangerous._

**Genre**  
Humour/ Crime

* * *

**A few months earlier:**

John had come back from the clinic after trying to convince a lady that a runny nose was not a symptom of cancer. He was hoping that maybe his eccentric flatmate would be in a somewhat… 'agreeable' would be pushing it, but… less Sherlock-y mood than usual. His hopes were mercilessly crushed underfoot once he saw the black car parked outside 221B Baker Street.

_Mycroft_

Already in a foul mood, John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, which was stiff from sitting at his desk all day. He tramped his way upstairs slowly, expecting the two brothers to be ripping each other's throats out. On the contrary, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock, jumping around the flat with a maniacal grin on his face, Mycroft watching him calmly from his seat.

'Evening Doctor Watson, we've been waiting for you.' Was Mycroft's greeting.

'Um, hello Mycroft, what's going on?' John glanced from him to Sherlock. 'Oh… he's not- is he?' John felt his stomach drop, fearing the worst.

'No,_**this**_ is far better than cocaine, John!' Sherlock darted towards him and waved a thick file in his face. John looked from his flatmate to the file in front of him before hesitantly taking it.

'So I take it we have a case?' John looked at the folder again, now interested, it had to be good if Sherlock was reacting like this. The Consulting Detective only reacted to a new case this way if it was particularly interesting or if he had gone without one for weeks.

'_Really,_ what makes you say _that_? John, your powers of deduction are growing stronger by the day!' Sarcasm dripped off Sherlock's words like honey, putting John in a worse mood than before.

However, before the doctor could do something ridiculously violent to his flatmate, Mycroft stepped in. 'Everything you need to know is in the folder Doctor, but the facts are briefly these: In the town of Riverview, there is a small fair every year to celebrate the day a riot in the city was quelled. But every year since the riots stopped, on the night of the fair - or shortly after - a person has been killed. You may think it coincidence, but it has happened without fail every year for four years. The locals believe it to be a curse, as the victims have always been two people who threatened the peace of the village—'

'Wait… two people? You said only one was killed.' John interrupted, ignoring the look of annoyance that briefly flashed across Mycroft's face.

'Yes, only one is found dead, but again, on the night of the fair or shortly after another goes missing. The locals say the missing person is a… sacrifice of sorts, to stop the curse until the next year. Would you pass me that folder?' John handed it over.

'All the specifics are inside this, details on the victims, the history of the riot, information regarding the fair, information on the town and… the address and keys to your new lodgings while you investigate.' Mycroft closed the folder and set it on the coffee table; John picked it up and started quickly rifling through it.

'Wh- you mean we'll be _staying_ there? For how long exactly?' John couldn't believe it.

'Of course we'll be staying there!' Sherlock snapped, 'How else are we going to find the murderers?'

'According to this, the most recent victims were police officers trying to investigate!' John argued, he wanted to go on the case, but he didn't fancy the idea of getting brutally murdered or going missing, and the other happening to Sherlock.

'You don't have to go if you don't want, you're right.' Sherlock walked towards him.

'About what, exactly?' John looked up at him; Sherlock had a glint in his eye as he spoke.

'It could be _dangerous_.'


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 02**  
_In which Sherlock takes public transport._

**Genre**  
Humour/ Crime

* * *

The next day, Sherlock and John were on a bus headed for Riverview. John was dreading the nine hour bus ride, sitting next to Sherlock – the man was susceptible to boredom, and violently impatient when it came to really interesting cases. The trip wouldn't be so long if they didn't have about a hundred pit stops on the way, sometimes going off-course for a half-an-hour bathroom break in some out-of-the-way town. They were only on a bus because Riverview didn't have a train station and Sherlock refused to ask Mycroft for a lift.

So here they were, on a bus with fifteen other people, including one teenager who was already loudly complaining of carsickness when they were only ten minutes into the journey. Sherlock had demanded the window seat, but apparently people outside were too dull, and John was wondering what he would think of the countryside, when it was nothing but trees and sheep. The few small mercies were: the good ventilation - it didn't smell, they were going to put on a movie later, it had big windows, it wasn't too hot or cold, it wasn't too cramped and the seats were pretty comfortable. John smiled to himself - that was quite a few pros, maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

'John, I'm bored'

Spoke too soon.

'How are you bored? It's only half an hour in, Sherlock!' John hissed quietly at his companion, not wanting to disturb any of the other passengers, who were quietly talking, listening to music or just staring out the window like _normal_ people(except the carsick one). 'Just figure out someone's life story!' John noticed that the two teenage girls across from them were staring, he was suddenly glad there was nobody sitting directly in front or behind them.

'I already know everything I can about these unforgivably dull people.' Sherlock pouted.

'Go through the case file then!' He lowered his tone even more, he didn't need the two girls thinking they were insane, and he certainly didn't want to tempt them to eavesdrop any more.

'I've memorised it.' Sherlock looked at John as if he thought that was normal.

John had run out of ideas, no way in hell was he going to let him have his iPod or the book he had packed. John reached into his bag, pulled out a notepad and pen and passed them to Sherlock. 'Write down everything you know about the people on this bus, then.' If he were lucky, this would occupy at least ten minutes of Sherlock's time. A small wave of relief washed through him as his flatmate started writing furiously. With Sherlock occupied, John had a look at the file concerning the case.

Without going into too much detail, this is what was inside:

_A newspaper clipping about the riot with side notes written, as well as a report. Apparently the riot was started when a person of power in the town slapped someone's daughter during a fair. The riot itself was small, and only happened because people argued - and eventually fought - over whether it was acceptable or not, but it seemed that the town was just a ticking time bomb, set off suddenly by this event. Tons of scandals ensued, including kidnappings, blackmail and murder. Eventually a meeting was held (on the 19__th__ of February); a mutual agreement was made that it had gone too far, and the meeting turned into the modern-day fair. Just like that?_

_A small page on the fair; on the 19__th__ of February every year, everyone would go to the town centre, where stalls, games etc. were set up. At 8:00pm, everyone would go down to a point on the riverbank where everyone would swim in the river, the mayor making a speech later in the evening. It seemed that everyone in the village showed up every year, too afraid of the curse to miss it._

_Some information on the town. It was very small, with a population of only three hundred, the sort of quaint town where everyone knows everyone. _Sherlock would fit in even less than usual here, not to mention that he would be too conspicuous for the Detective's liking. Their odds of being hit by the curse were rising dramatically, much to John's disdain._ There were two supermarkets, a café, a bistro, a police station, a fire department, a hospital, a junkyard, a small school with only one class, a 'soil and water research facility', a bookstore, a graveyard… pretty much everything a small town needed to function._

_Some info about rumours: People say that all of the missing people's bodies are in Riverview Swamp – which is said to be bottomless._

_Now, the reports on the murder victims and missing people, John only noted what he saw as important: _

_**The first year:**__ Raymond Huxter. Died – 19__th__ February 2008, 11:00 – 12:00pm.  
The person who had slapped the girl and started everything – John didn't see any point in noting his appearance, but he was the mayor's brother. He fell off a bridge near the town's police station, he was later found washed up on the riverbank._

_Celia Lee. Missing – 19__th__ February 2008, 11: 00 - 11:40pm.  
The girl who had been slapped – Her family home was burned down when someone left the gas on in the kitchen overnight and her father woke up and tried to light a cigarette. Every member of the family survived, all of them injured in some way, but Celia had disappeared. Apparently she went to bed after staying at the festival late with some friends, nobody noticed her disappearance until the fire crew tried to get her out of the house, to find that she wasn't there._

_**The second year:**__ Joe Smith. Died – 20__th__ February 2009, 2:00 – 3:00pm.  
A man on Raymond Huxter's side during the riot who had been accused of kidnapping the mayor's son, but was found innocent. When his death was investigated, it was found that the man had bribed several members of the court during his trial. He was killed by Miss Janine Jones and dismembered by a group of people at the town's junkyard. The group cut him into six pieces and hid one each. Eventually five out of six of them confessed and the body parts were found, with the exception of the original murderer, Janine, who hid his left arm – which is also missing._

_Janine Jones. Missing – 22nd February 2009, 2:00 – 3:00am.  
The 15-year- old murderer of Joe Smith, responsible for hiding his left arm. She was seen last by her friends when they split up to hide the remains of Joe Smith. She apparently murdered Mr. Smith when she confronted him on suspicion of him bribing the court, and he attacked her. After confessing to her friends and employing them to help hide his dismembered body, she left the junkyard with the garbage bag containing the arm and was never seen again._

_**The third year:**__ Alex Quinn. Died – 19__th__ February 2010, 5:30 – 7:30pm.  
A seventeen year old schoolgirl who had been researching the deaths as a school project with her friend, Lonnie Dean. She had been seen at the fair with a group of her friends but went missing when the group split up to buy food. Her body was found lying on the riverbank when people started moving down. She had been disembowelled by an object suspected to be a kitchen knife and there was no evidence of sedatives or restrain._

_Lonnie Dean. Missing – 19__th__ February 2010, 8:10pm.  
The seventeen year old friend of Alex Quinn who had been researching the deaths as a school project with her. After seeing her friend's body, she went into shock and was treated by paramedics in the back of an ambulance. After a few minutes, the paramedics closed the ambulance with her still sitting inside and drove away, unnoticed by the panicking crowds. She never arrived at the hospital, she disappeared along with the paramedics who apparently didn't work at the hospital at all: their descriptions didn't fit anyone in the town and they still haven't been found._

_**The fourth year:**__ Jim Bagley. Died – 19__th__ February 2011, 6:55pm  
A Riverview police officer investigating the curse who suddenly dropped dead from some unidentified poison while at the fair. John couldn't help but note his idiocy – the man hadn't been very discreet about his investigations, literally just walking around the town, questioning people on their doorsteps, like those annoying people who do surveys. He had been asking everyone in the village things like what they thought the 'curse' was and what determined a victim. He was part of the police presence at the fair when he died. _

_Samuel Fairchild. Missing – 20__th__ February 2011, 10:48pm  
A Riverview police officer who had been investigating the curse with Jim Bagley, he had been working late on officer Bagley's death and left the station to go home. But disappeared before he got into his car, which was found parked in the lot outside the station. _

John closed the folder, slowly processing all the information, all the while trying to find patterns, links, _anything._

'Don't bother trying, there aren't any important ones except the obvious.' Sherlock passed the notebook back to John, it was almost completely used up now. He sighed and turned to Sherlock.

'…they were all either investigating the curse, or they were doing something… not good. Except Celia Lee..?' John muttered.

'Well, she did kick up a fuss.'

'That wasn't her fault though… You have any ideas about what the "curse" is?'

'Twelve so far.' Sherlock replied in his usual offhand manner. Turning back to look out the window

'Right.'

…

'John?'

'Yes Sherlock…?'

'Bored.'


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 03**  
_In which the fire brigade had to be called in, and dusting is boring._

**Genre**  
Humour/ Drama

* * *

After arriving at the bus station and hailing a cab to their new (temporary) house, it was only a matter of moving in. Fortunately Sherlock and John never seemed to argue over trivialities such as room arrangements. Though this house only had one bedroom… now before all you readers start squealing with delight or groaning at the grotesquely cliché situation: there were two beds. It was probably for security reasons, just in case someone tried kidnapping one of them, or so they both hoped, anyway.

So John laid his suitcase on his bed and started neatly packing his clothes away in the small drawer at his bedside, always the neat military man. Sherlock did the same, only with less… class. The house was scarcely furnished, so there were only two beds, two sets of drawers and a rickety wooden dining chair in the bedroom, which Sherlock placed the skull on. John finished before him and went back downstairs to check out the kitchen. Soon they were both back in the lounge room.

'Looks like nobody's been here for a while…' John noted absentmindedly, swiping a finger through the thick layer of dust that had gathered on the faux wood coffee table.

'A year and a half, going by the dust and the state of the garden.' Sherlock mused. 'Except Mycroft's people, who have hidden cameras around.'

John nodded, he recognised one of Mycroft's cameras in the bedroom, they were well disguised, but harder to miss when you knew what they looked like, and you always noticed these things when you lived with Sherlock. 'A year and a half?'

'Obviously - Give or take a few months.' Sherlock admitted.

'Well, I guess I'd better start cleaning up - care to join me?' John knew he was pushing his luck; Sherlock was being remarkably well-behaved on this case. Except at one of the gas stations they had stopped at for breakfast. Sherlock deduced that the cashier had a drinking problem and liver disease and that he 'shouldn't bother getting a better job because he'd be dead soon and it wasn't like anyone would want to employ him anyway'. John had to apologise to the man and buy Sherlock's breakfast (a sausage roll he didn't end up eating), because he had stormed out after that. John knew he wouldn't apologise, and he would have to force Sherlock to eat and… Dear Lord, _this_ was good behaviour for Sherlock?

'Umm… no.'

'Why can't you just bloody help for once?' John was angry again.

'Don't you remember what happened last time I did the washing?' Oh yes, John remembered. The fire brigade had to be called in.

'It's just dusting Sherlock! Surely your _amazing intellect_ can comprehend something so simple!'

'It **is** simple, it's boring.'

John made a sound not unlike a feral animal as Sherlock walked out the front door.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 04**  
_In which it is slightly disturbing and Sherlock looks at dirt._

**Genre**  
Suspense/ Drama

* * *

Once Sherlock was out on the street, he started walking. He really didn't want to do any cleaning and he needed to familiarise himself with the small town. Their house seemed to be in the poorer part of Riverview, nice and inconspicuous - but it was closer to the hospital than anywhere else. It was slightly disturbing, but somewhat comforting at the same time to see that Mycroft had _some_ foresight. This was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson after all.

As he neared the simple brick bridge that would take him over the river and to the centre of town, he bent down and took a small handful of soil from the side of the footpath - not for the first time this walk, and studied it._ Slightly higher concentration of clay, finer individual grains compared to the other samples he had studied from around the town._ He then moved down to the riverbank and, cupping his hands, took a sample of water and dipped his tongue in - _freshwater with a little bit of salt from the river mouth nearby, as well as some other things he couldn't quite put his finger on – taste wasn't his area of deductive expertise_.

He walked back up to the footpath and was about to cross the bridge when a police car stopped next to him and an officer stepped out, a cigarette in his mouth. Sherlock recognised him immediately from a picture Mycroft had given him. The dull grey hair, lightly tanned face, disgusting tobacco stained teeth and obesity were all familiar. He was supposed to meet up with him on the subject of the case.

'Emmett Wells, I presume?'

'Why don't we talk in my car, its air-conditioned.'

'And how do I know you're not a kidnapper? This is a _dangerous_ case, after all.'

The man laughed, 'Honestly, and your brother said you were perceptive. Do I look like a kidnapper or a rapist to you?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, 'Is that a serious question?' Actually, the man looked similar enough to a serial rapist he had caught years ago. He could tell it wasn't him though; this man was unhappily married with no children, was getting little sleep (like most half-dedicated police officers) and had serious cholesterol and lung problems if his breathing was any indication. 'Alright, let's talk in the car.'

'So, you know pretty much everything about the case, what do you think? Be absolutely serious, I don't care if you have nothing new to tell me.'

'Twelve ideas so far, I'll need to do some investigating before I can narrow it down, though. Do you have anything of **use** to me, or have you been absolutely useless these past four years?' Sherlock looked up at officer Wells, who looked only slightly put-off at Sherlock's attitude. He was doing well, most police officers would have started yelling by now.

'Well… no sorry, besides my own speculations. Even then, there's only one that makes any sense, we're pulling at straws here.' Officer Wells sighed and pushed in the car's cigarette lighter.

'Pray tell.' Sherlock clapped his hands and placed them under his chin, leaning forward in his usual listening pose that John said looked like praying. Sort of ironic, considering what he'd just said.

'Well, a girl living in the town, Alice Browning - a friend of the girl who was disembowelled - moved away into her aunt's house shortly after her friend's death, because her parents were concerned. Apparently a few days after she moved, she started acting weirdly. I don't know most of the details, but apparently she became paranoid, depressed, and started behaving violently and unpredictably. Her aunt and parents were worried that she had been cursed and moved her back to Riverview, thinking that it would cure it somehow, and she suddenly started acting normally again. This is all just gossip, but stuff like this happens to people who move away from the town, it's like the curse—'

Sherlock was interested. 'I would like a description as well as where I might be able to find her.'

The policeman nodded, retrieving a notebook and pen from his pocket, he scribbled down a few words before tearing the page out and passing it to Sherlock.

_Alice Browning_

_12 Willow Rd_

_Tall, thin, fair skinned, long white-blonde hair, well dressed – from a rich family_

_Spends a lot of time at the library or Café_

It wasn't as much as Sherlock would have been able to get on the girl, but it was enough.

Without a single word of farewell, Sherlock climbed out of the car and headed back to his temporary lodgings, where John would no doubt be watching crap telly.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 05**  
_In which Sherlock is mildly impressed_

**Genre**  
Horror/ Drama

* * *

Sherlock and John were in the library looking for Alice, they had come here every day for a week, thinking it was too conspicuous to just knock on her front door, but today they had better luck. It was a small place, with an interesting atmosphere

It didn't take long to spot the girl, browsing through the non-fiction shelves. They slowly walked towards her, trying to look as casual as possible – just friends on a visit to the library. Sherlock stopped a little way away from her, picked a book off one of the shelves and pretended to skim through it. John tried to look like he was reading over Sherlock's shoulder, difficult considering their difference in height. In fact, that was probably what gave them away.

'Alright, follow me.' Alice rolled her eyes, closed the book she was reading and tugged lightly on Sherlock's coat as she walked past them. Sherlock looked faintly surprised for a split second before his usual emotionless mask took over once again. The two of them followed the girl to the borrowing desk where she loaned the book she had been reading, then she walked outside, where people were buzzing about on their lunch break. It was almost shocking, being suddenly whisked away from busy, congested London and moving to a country town of only a few hundred.

They walked in silence until they reached a park, where they all adopted a more leisurely pace. 'In case you're wondering, I knew you wanted to talk to me because I hadn't seen you before, so you attracted my attention. You looked like you were searching for something and you stopped suddenly near me.' She turned her head to look at them, 'So you must be after that rumour of me being cursed some years ago, because there isn't anything else interesting about me.'

'I wasn't wondering.' Sherlock spoke slowly. John could tell that Sherlock was mildly impressed though, this girl was better than most of the police back in London, even though she wasn't quite Sherlock.

'So I've brought us to this park, where it is less likely that we'll be overheard thanks to all the noise in the background. And this is where we'll find another friend of mine who may be able to help you if you're interested in the curse.' Alice shielded her eyes with her hand, scanning through the trees before making a beeline for a fashionably dressed Asian woman sitting alone on a bench in the corner of the park, reading through a book. She dog-eared her page and looked up as we neared her.

'Hello Alice, who are these new friends of yours?' She politely smiled at us each in turn. She had a slightly unsettling way of talking, she said everything slowly and softly, like she was choosing her words carefully - and her voice was constantly stuck between a smug, tired and amused tone. That was the best way John could describe it - it was hard to put into words.

'I don't know their names, but they are investigating the curse.' Sherlock had remained blissfully silent during this whole thing, probably because he knew it was important to get information out of these two women.

'Mm?'

'I am Jeremy Brett, and this is my friend, Martin Freeman' Sherlock introduced us by the false names Mycroft had given us.

'Karen Tran, I'm a nurse at the local hospital. It's nice to meet you. So are you two police officers?'

'No.'

'Ah, so you're doing it for a hobby, like me. It's always nice to meet someone with similar interests.' She hadn't stopped smiling yet.

'The feeling is mutual.' Sherlock smiled at her kindly.

Karen cocked her head to one side. 'Has Alice told you of her experience with the curse?'

'No, we're interested, but she doesn't have to say a word if she doesn't want to…' Sherlock was disturbingly good at acting kind.

'Oh, I don't mind, I'd actually like it if someone worked out what the curse was.' Alice piped from where she was standing.

'So this is what happened: My parents made me move out of town to live with my aunt after two of my friends had been hit by the curse,' She closed her eyes and smiled grimly. '…but only a week or so after I'd moved, I started hearing a third footstep behind me whenever I stopped walking, I lost my appetite, I felt something watching over me when I slept, I soon became depressed and paranoid and I think I started seeing things…' She trailed off and shook her head before starting again, a haunted look on her face.

'Once when I was outside walking home from school, I tripped and grazed my knee, it wasn't particularly bad, but it started bleeding and- and _maggots_ started coming out of the wound with the blood. I panicked and started scratching at it to try and get them out, but they kept trying to get back in, and it was so itchy, and I could feel them squirming under my skin, and…' She was panicking now, John was watching carefully, bracing himself in case she fainted.

'a-and… I think I blacked out, next thing I knew I was in hospital, it seemed I had actually lost quite a bit of blood. Soon after that, I moved back to my parent's house in Riverview, they seemed to think it was the curse. I think they were right, a couple of days after I had moved back, I was my old self again.' She suddenly calmed down and shrugged, looking up at us with a cautious but hopeful look in her face, not expecting us to believe her.

Sherlock looked very thoughtful, John looked very disturbed.

Karen placed a hand on Alice's shoulder and handed an innocent-looking A5 notebook towards them. 'Here is a notebook of mine, I've been studying the curse for a while now – my notes are in here, but please don't tell anyone about it, our research, or what Alice has told you, we don't want to become the next victims of the curse now, do we?' She giggled softly. John took the notebook in silence.

Sherlock turned and started to walk away. 'Thanks, you've been helpful.' John said as goodbye before he turned and jogged up next to Sherlock. 'Now, what next?'

'We take a look through this notebook, obviously John.' Sherlock dived to grab it out of John's hand and started flicking through it.

'Right… fancy lunch when we get back?'

'Just tea for me, thanks.'


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 06**  
_In which John is not so impressed_

**Genre**  
General/ Suspense

* * *

Sherlock spent the next few days scouring the notebook, John couldn't see why. Absolutely everything in that book was like garbage taken straight from a b-grade cult movie. He had finally managed to skim through it while Sherlock was on one of his many trips outside that he had started taking recently; John had come with him less than half the time, and then they were only questioning the victim's families. He felt slightly hurt that Sherlock didn't ask for his company most of the time, but assumed this was just Sherlock being himself, following leads, gathering data – like with the suitcase in A Study in Pink.

Back to the notebook, John could hardly believe Sherlock was taking it seriously, but knowing Sherlock, he was looking for truth _behind_ the words. The man was writing down notes in some strange code on a napkin – but John didn't have the energy, patience or intelligence to decode it. Karen's notebook was in plain English though, and contained some of the most ridiculous ideas he had ever seen, Karen seemed to think that it was some kind of conspiracy involving drugs and the town's food supply – even though there had been no trace of drugs in any of the victims. And before you say anything – yes, they had searched for _everything. _Apparently the forensics specialist here was slightly more competent than Anderson_._

John couldn't argue that she was just another insane conspiracy theorist – well, she could be. John knew that Mycroft had cameras around the city, and he knew that some terrorist attacks were indeed 'inside jobs', so he wasn't so quick to dismiss conspiracy theorists these days. But drugs in the food just wasn't… Mycroft's style, and he had been the one to give them the case. Even if it was the town's leaders, he would have some idea of what was going on, so that ruled out the drugged food theory.

The few pages after that were more ridiculous but unsettling nonetheless - 'Concerning the curse and maggots' being one of them, John desperately wanted to read that page, remembering Alice's words at the park (his intuition told him that the page would probably be completely based off Alice's account and little else), but he heard Sherlock's footsteps coming up the driveway, so he quickly placed the notebook down on the table and picked up a newspaper just as his flatmate entered.

'Put your coat on, we're going out.'

'Where to?'

'Junkyard, I have a lead of sorts.'

'The junkyard?'

Sherlock smiled. 'To search for Joe Smith's left arm.'


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 07  
**_In which John has the weirdest sleepover he has possibly ever been to._

**Genre**  
Haven't the foggiest.

* * *

Bloody typical way to spend a Friday evening with Sherlock Holmes - searching for a disembodied arm in a pile of twisted scrap metal, plastic and old cars.

_One foot in front of the other, soldier on, best foot forward, worse things happen at sea… _John was reciting clichés to himself as he stumbled along behind his nimbler companion, who was currently standing atop what appeared to be an old discarded IKEA wardrobe, his coat flapping about him in the wind as he waited impatiently for John to catch up. How did Sherlock always look so… Dramatic? Epic? John couldn't think of a better word.

Moving on… For a town this small, the junkyard was amazingly big, huge in fact. John only had to worry about losing his footing and falling into a piece of jagged metal, as it seemed that no-one dumped any food here. So if he was going to impale himself on something, he wouldn't have the embarrassment of having someone else's lunch splattered across his shirt. John grimaced as he realised this was the only silver lining there was. Don't get him wrong, there were cockroaches.

'So what makes you think it's here? Isn't this where he was murdered? I thought people never **hide** bodies at the crime scene.'

'Oh come on John, Janine Jones was last seen in this junkyard, and according to her family she spent a lot of time, sometimes hours here "treasure hunting".' Sherlock had his "_isn't it obvious?"_ voice on. 'So we're looking for the body of Janine Jones as well.'

John felt a spike of anger towards his insufferable companion, who was easily traversing a mound of dumped cars and a pile of very old soda cans. _This town really needs to get a recycling center._ John thought to himself as he stumbled gracelessly across the same pile Sherlock had floated over seconds ago.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only about- no, scratch that; it **was** hours later when fatigue got the best of John. He was fitter than Sherlock, but it was about 3am and John couldn't function without sleep like his friend could, and Sherlock was nimbler, having less difficulty clambering over the never ending maze of trash. John started falling behind, then decided to sit down on a mangy old mattress half-covered by what appeared to be the remains of a satellite dish and a stove. Sherlock looked back at him, mild annoyance written over his usually expressionless face.

'Problem?' he raised an eyebrow.

'We've been here since ten, I'm tired.' Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but John cut him off.

'Not all of us find sleep dull, Sherlock!'

'You're being irritable.'

'Of course I'm being bloody irritable!' John dropped his head into his hands and massaged his temples - he had a headache coming on.

'Fine.' John looked up at Sherlock, his jaw nearly dropped, was Sherlock being… serious? 'Yes, I'm being _serious_, I'm not fond of the idea of having a spoilt child grumbling at my back.' It took all of John's self-restraint not to punch the smug git in the face, and to just take the offer for what it was worth. Sherlock backtracked towards where John was sitting and helped him clear off some of the stove remains.

'So… what, we're just going to sleep on a dirty old mattress in the middle of a junkyard?' John commented.

'No, of course not, you're going to.' Sherlock replied in a very off-hand manner. John sighed, this was going to be awkward, but Sherlock hadn't slept all week, as far as John knew anyway.

'Look Sherlock, you need sleep too.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a barely repressed smirk.

'Not that I'm trying to imply anyth-'

'I know you weren't implying anything.' Sherlock cut him off, 'I don't sleep on cases.'

'Fine.' John had lost this battle too many times to count.

So John fell asleep almost instantly, on an old mattress, surrounded by the remains of a satellite dish, in a junkyard - possibly the weirdest sleepover John had ever been to.

* * *

**I hate myself for putting in that last bit, really. I just wanted to show that they were spending ages there, and needed to add in John's usual concern, etc. Forgiveness please?**


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 08**  
_In which John may or may not have eaten a cockroach._

**Genre**  
Mystery/ Suspense

* * *

John woke the next (well, same) morning with Sherlock in his face. It nearly gave him a heart attack.

'Come on! You've been sleeping for two hours now!' Sherlock was clearly annoyed with his ridiculously _normal _flatmate.

'Ugh…' Was John's intelligent response. He looked down at himself and sighed; he was covered in dirt and would need to wash his clothes when he got back to the house. He hoped no cockroaches had crawled into his mouth during the night. He wasn't hopeful.

So they continued their search, John only slightly less irritable than before. They only had to look around for a few minutes, though, before they found something that took Sherlock's interest - an old caravan. It was probably the biggest thing that they had found at the dump, and it looked like someone had cleared out some of the scrap surrounding it, even going so far as to lay down some old corrugated iron around it, so it was sitting on a flat surface and easily accessible. Sherlock jumped from the top of an old fridge onto the sheets of metal before pulling on a pair of gloves from his pocket and checking the windows and door of the caravan. John was right behind him.

'You think anyone's been here lately?'

'No, but someone has been here.' Sherlock stated as he pulled on the door, it clicked open. John's hand was at his gun, ready as Sherlock opened the door carefully.

They were met with nothing save a stale smell from inside the caravan. Sherlock climbed in, John following him to open a few windows. Sherlock immediately began to rummage, John wishing (not for the first time in his life) that he knew what was going on in his friend's head.

'Umm, Sherlock?' John asked timidly after a few minutes. Sherlock didn't seem hear him. 'You see anything?'

'Not much.' Sherlock smirked. 'This is where Janine Jones was just before she went missing, though, and she certainly didn't disappear by choice.'

'What?'

'Oh come on, the packages of food in the cupboard - not a single one of them expired before the year she disappeared,'' Sherlock took one out and placed it on the small table.

'…and then there's the small collection of toys and items on the counter, undoubtedly from the junkyard, as most of them are broken,' Sherlock gestured towards the items in question, a collection of knick-knacks sitting on the kitchen counter. 'You were with me when we spoke to all of the victim's parents - Mrs. Jones said that her daughter was fond of anything cute, and you saw the alarming amount of stuffed toys in her room.'

'Now, the photos on the counter, of her family and friends. The friends that helped hide the body.' Sherlock picked up a photo of six smiling schoolchildren, showing it to John before placing it back down and picking up another faded one (that had been ripped in half) of a smiling woman that John recognised as Mrs. Jones, with a disembodied hand on her shoulder; obviously belonging to whoever had been ripped out of the picture.

'This photo is much older than the rest, it looks like it was of her parents - I recognise the mother, but her father is ripped out of the picture. If he were dead, she wouldn't have ripped his picture out, so family problems, most likely divorce as Mr. Jones didn't look anything like Janine when I visited them, and his wedding ring was less than five years old.'

'Moving on, her schoolbag is here with some unfinished homework in it, she had been doing it before she killed Joe Smith, as there are still erasings left on the table and the dates at the top of the page match. In the front pocket, there is a small wallet, a cheap one that was just for school. There are still a few pounds, her house key and a bus pass left inside, as well as her student ID. If she had been planning to run away once she had hidden the arm, she would've come back here that night, without fear of being caught, to collect the photos - maybe, the money and the bus pass. If they're still here, that means she went missing directly before or after hiding the arm, and so she quite obviously didn't run away of her own free will.'

Sherlock started texting madly on his phone while John sat outside, processing this new information. The gravity of the situation suddenly hit him, these victims really were just disappearing without a trace, and it made him feel sick to think that Sherlock and he could be next.

* * *

**Ok, the idea of the caravan is based off the anime, too.**


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 09**  
_In which mobile phones and the French language are not compatible  
_

**Genre**  
Humour/ family

* * *

Shortly after the junkyard 'incident' – John didn't know what else to call it – Mycroft texted Sherlock and soon they were having a three-way texting conversation:

Thank you for texting me your findings at the junkyard, the details are being added to the file - MH

Are you keeping up the payment on the flat? – SH

Of course, have you two found anything else? – MH

No – SH

What about that notebook you seem so interested in? - MH

Ah, so the cameras aren't just decoration – SH

Why are there cameras in the house? - JW

Never mind. – JW

While we're having this talk, I would like you two to start keeping a Journal – MH

What? – JW

What? – SH

Not in the conventional sense, only if the curse is real, we would like to know your mental state before you die or disappear - MH

Great to see some brotherly concern there – JW

I'm not keeping a bloody diary – SH

If I don't see either of you write in it every day, I'll block your access to the morgue, Sherlock. And I'll report your gun to the police, John. – MH

Mycroft, Tu es un poisson rouge tres moche – SH

What was that? Something about red? – JW

If you add in the accents that texting does not provide, I believe he called me a very ugly goldfish – MH

... lol, real mature Sherlock :P – JW

Childish – MH

Yet oddly fitting - SH

So keep a journal, mon frere. And John, you can get a job, I see that it has been on your mind. – MH

Oh, thanks? – JW

Wait, how did you know that? – JW

* * *

**Forgive my bad French, it's the school holidays, I've quit French, and I wasn't overly fond of my teacher. She scared me; but it's the accents and adjectives that get me mainly. So I used texting as an excuse to avoid putting in accents, and I spent about 20 minutes wondering if 'tr****è****s moche' came before or after 'poisson rouge', so you can't say I didn't try.**

**Oh, and Karen Tran and her notebook are based off the anime too.**


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**_  
In which Sherlock uses an unnecessary amount of nicotine patches_

**Genre**  
No idea

* * *

The day after that conversation, John and Sherlock found two thick A5 notebooks in their letterbox, and so both men hesitantly started writing in entries, being careful to write in dates and times where possible, and both coding their entries in some way or other. John only knew Caesar cipher and pigpen, so he used both. It would be pathetically easy to crack, but it was slightly comforting seeing the page filled with odd symbols. Sherlock's code was more elaborate of course; one that Mycroft and he had been using since they were children.

After a while, John got a job at the local hospital/ GP (They were the same thing in Riverview), which he was slowly adapting to, still not used to being called Dr. Freeman. John was just glad to be useful on this case, even if he was just a source of income and an open ear to any office gossip about the curse. It seemed that people were hesitant to bring up the subject, and almost afraid to voice their opinions - John still heard plenty though, usually hesitant whispers in the corridors of the workplace as the fair drew nearer, he'd usually have to guess some of their words:

'_So who (do you think's going to) be cursed this year?'_

'_I (dunno, maybe those) new chaps who moved in just last month.'_

'_You mean Dr. Freeman and that (Jeremy guy)? They (seem like) nice people, can't see (why they'd be cursed).'_

'_I guess, but that Jeremy (does seem) a bit… odd.'_

'_What 'ya mean?'_

'_Dunno, he's just… shady, (but not at) the same time, ya know?'_

' _(I think I know) what you're talking about, (don't think weird people) are the targets, though.'_

'_Hope you're right, 'bout time (we had) some more interesting (people in this) town.'_

'_(Do they even) know about the curse? (Anyone told) 'em?'_

'_Dunno, (If not, they'll) know soon (enough,) fair's just week after next.'_

Meanwhile, Sherlock was stewing in his own boredom. He would occasionally jump up from the couch with a sort of explosive energy, get dressed in record time and run out the door on an obviously new lead, sometimes dragging John out of bed to come along with him. Then he would return later, with or without a slightly frustrated John behind him, a scowl on his face (nine times out of ten), and flop back down on the couch, fingers itching for the violin that was lying back at 221B Baker street. So he made do with an unnecessary number of nicotine patches that he would slap on his arms before writing down his latest entry in the "journal".

Sherlock was getting frustrated, John could see that.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**  
_In which seconds of planning finally come to fruition_

**Genre**  
Suspense/ Humour

* * *

It was an abnormally warm night in Riverview. Sherlock was walking home, alone, after yet another disappointing lead, his tailored shirt was sticking to the slight amount of perspiration on his back, but he still refused to take his coat or scarf off. He scuffed his shoe on the pavement - it wasn't right, Sherlock never did this badly on a case, he just had so little to go on. He was even beginning to suspect that Moriarty and his criminal empire had risen from the grave. He was thinking on this when he registered that he was being followed.

"…_on the night of the fair or shortly after, another goes missing…"_

It wasn't the night of the fair, so they probably weren't going to harm him - unless, of course, they were a very stealthy, unconventional mugger or an old enemy. Without pausing, he quickly pretended to search for something in his pocket, using it as an excuse to twist his head to the side slightly and take a quick look behind him. He saw a quick flash as his pursuer hid behind a garbage can, they were good at this, but not good enough.

White, male, average height, average weight, comparatively good posture, wearing a black hooded jacket and jeans in warm weather, unfamiliar with the town…

"…_along with the paramedics who apparently didn't work at the hospital at all; their descriptions didn't fit anyone in the town…"_

It wasn't much information, but enough to cross a few suspects off the list, by no means comforting. Sherlock picked his phone out of his pocket and pretended to busy himself texting while listening to the footsteps echoing his own.

Rubber-soled shoes…

Sherlock crossed the street, still looking at his phone, and turned a corner before quickly clambering up a tall stone fence and standing at the top, obscured by a nearby tree and the lack of streetlights on the road. He took off his coat, feeling the air sting his back, losing the heat created by the treasured item of clothing. Sherlock had planned his ambush carefully, seconds of planning were about to come to fruition.

His pursuer turned the corner and stopped short, seeing no one on the road. Sherlock dropped his coat over the head of the man, who let out a quiet exclamation of surprise as his vision was suddenly obscured. As he reached up to rip the coat off, Sherlock jumped off the fence – onto the man below, taking care to position himself so as to simply kick him over and badly wind him if not knock him out. The man didn't even make a sound, save the quiet 'oof' before hitting the pavement with a crack, Sherlock landed next to his unconscious body and smiled slightly as he turned towards his pursuer. He stopped short once he saw the man's face.

_Oh._

_Ohh…_

Sherlock quickly whipped his mobile out and messaged John to come quickly, and bring his medical kit.

He really hoped Lestrade didn't have a concussion.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**  
_In which gossip is more deadly than the plague_

**Genre**  
Friendship (if you're optimistic)

* * *

**Just a quick thank-you to my amazing friend and Beta: Strawberry, without them, this story wouldn't make sense to anyone but me.**

* * *

So Sherlock was sitting in John's consulting room, at eleven o'clock at night, with a barely conscious Lestrade on the bed in the corner. It seemed he had just knocked Lestrade out.

'Well, you're lucky it's nothing I can't fix up.' John was carefully examining the place Lestrade's head hit the pavement. So Sherlock's aim had been perfect, one thin silver lining to the whole situation. 'So what exactly were you doing, knocking Lestrade over? And why is he in town, anyway?'

'Mycroft probably sent him, like in the Baskerville case, he was following me and I didn't recognise him so I misinterpreted his intentions, he was being an idiot.' Sherlock admitted. 'Will he be awake soon?'

'Probably not, should we drag him back to the house? Or have a sleepover in my consulting room? Which takes your fancy?' John didn't like either option. They didn't have a car so they would have to either walk back, dragging the unconscious man with them or take Lestrade back in a cab – which was a bad idea, gossip around here spread like the plague - only much more deadly, considering the curse.

'Neither, thank you.'

'Sleepover it is, then. Coffee?'

'Black, two sugars.'

'Right'

John got up from where he was seated next to Lestrade and walked out into the hallway; there was nobody around at this time of night, obviously - except the patients in the hospital section of the building and a few nurses, doctors catching up on paperwork and the like - but they had managed to drag an unconscious Lestrade in without anyone seeing, thanks to Sherlock. Bloody hell, he _would_ make a good criminal.

The GPs usually didn't stay at night and hospital staff had no reason to leave their section of the building. That was why he was surprised to run into The Director at the coffee machine in the staff area.

'Hello Martin, it's a surprise to see you here.'

Doctor Alister Richards or "The Director" was a young GP. The kind of person who blended in a crowd easily, with brown hair, pale skin and glasses; not that it was a bad thing, some people stuck out too much. _*coughSherlockcough*_ "The Director" was a nickname that he earned from his family because he directed an advertisement for his wife's business, it stuck pretty horribly.

'Oh, Director… um, hi, what are you doing here?' John had to admit that he liked the guy.

'Oh, I was just finishing up some paperwork,' He replied as he poured himself a coffee, before getting another mug out for John. 'what are you doing here at this hour?' One reason he liked The Director, was because he was an understanding guy, didn't bother with small talk, and hated gossiping as well - maybe he could help.

'Oh, a friend of mine's a bit… unwell, so we brought him in, but now we can't get him back to our house, 'cos we don't have a car, and...' John drifted off and sighed, he might as well just ask. '…could you give us a lift, please?'

'Of course, Doctor Freeman, just let me grab some things from my office, and I'll meet you in the waiting room.' The Director smiled and nodded at him, set down his now empty mug of coffee and walked away.

Sherlock, a retired army doctor, a barely conscious DI, and The Director - this was going to be one interesting car ride.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**  
_In which there is not much content_

**Genre**  
Friendship/ very light fluff, if you squint

* * *

To Lestrade, getting attacked by Sherlock was worth it in the end, to be able to punch the consulting detective in the jaw without fear of being penalised by his superiors (who probably wanted to do the same, but he wasn't going to risk it). The look on Sherlock's face was priceless before he went and sulked on the couch, Lestrade wished he had a photo.

As it turned out; Lestrade _had_ been called in by Mycroft. John could tell the DI was genuinely concerned (at least a bit) about John and Sherlock, even though he tried to hide it. Sherlock couldn't see it though, he was convinced Mycroft was paying Lestrade, which he probably was… but that wasn't the point. It seemed that New Scotland Yard had been keeping an eye on things over here, more out of curiosity and pity for the police over here than anything else.

So Lestrade gave them his new, temporary address (only a street away) and home phone number, and left two hours, three cups of coffee, and one lengthy chat about the case later. It was somewhat comforting having Lestrade here, both of them liked the Detective Inspector, though Sherlock would never admit it.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**_  
In which Sherlock drinks coffee  
_

**Genre**  
General

* * *

Lestrade was careful to avoid talking to Sherlock and John in public, or anywhere they could be watched, the two flatmates did the same. They only discussed the case at Sherlock and John's house or over the phone, as Mycroft assured them that the calls on their phones couldn't be tapped or traced. It was only a matter of days until the fair - Sherlock, Lestrade and John still had no idea as to the identities of the next victims, and now John was dragging his friend out to the local café for lunch.

Some of the people from the hospital had invited him and wanted to meet "Jeremy", so here they were. His flatmate threw a tantrum when John asked, he called it a "waste of his time" and "unimportant", but John had learned how to manage Sherlock when he was like that.

It was a slightly hotter than usual day, so they decided to sit outside on the terrace around a rickety table that was straight out of the 80s and much too small for the five of them. John quickly introduced Sherlock to everyone at the table, even though he wasn't interested. There was Carla - a stereotypical attractive blonde nurse (besides her smile, she had ridiculously big gums and small teeth) and Mike and Ed– surgeons.

'Hello, Martin! And you must be Jeremy, how nice to finally meet you!' Carla waved at him, flashing her enormous gums at Sherlock – thank goodness the woman didn't try to shake his hand, Sherlock looked like he'd bite it off if she tried to. 'We've ordered coffees for you both, hope you're ok with cappuccinos.' Her voice was uncomfortably high, it sounded like a squeaky dog toy, what was she so excited about? Sherlock would probably be able to tell.

John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, suddenly nervous, hoping that Sherlock would play the part of Jeremy Brett, not his usual arrogant, insulting self. He looked each one of them up and down, but didn't tell them the state of their marriage, or even what they ate for breakfast - Sherlock hadn't done anything like that to anyone since they had moved here. Part of the false identity he wore was that he was not freakishly observant. With any luck, he would be able to continue restraining himself.

The two sat down on the uncomfortable metal chairs at the table, right next to each other - ignoring the slight pain caused by the heated metal. Mike, being a very sociable person, quickly started up a conversation on the quality of the food at the café, Sherlock threw in a comment or two - he was doing well, even if the conversation was still a bit awkward where he was involved. After a few minutes, a pager in Carla's hand buzzed – meaning that the coffees were ready. Carla and Ed went back inside the café to collect them.

Once they were out of sight, Mike asked the two of them, 'So… you guys going to the fair this year?'

John opened his mouth to say 'yes', but Sherlock replied first: 'What fair?'

'Oh yeah, you guys are new here, you hear about the riots what happened here?' Sherlock cringed at his grammar – or lack thereof.

'Yes, I've heard little bits and pieces.' Sherlock replied. Mike nodded.

'Well, in two days, we hold this here fair to celebrate the day the riots ended. 'S at town hall, wear your bathers, part of the tradition's to go swimmin' in the river afterwards.' Mike actually said a bit more than that, but that was the gist of it, and the curse wasn't mentioned – much to John's disdain. Then Carla and Ed came back with the coffees and they sat in silence for a bit, sipping at the hot liquid - even Sherlock, his weakness (besides tea, nicotine patches, drugs and cases) was coffee.

After a little more small talk, they all made their excuses and left. Sherlock went straight back to the house, but John instead went to the local shops, and after a few minutes of contemplation bought himself a cheap pair of bathers and a pair of navy blue board shorts. After some thought, he bought a somewhat matching rash vest too, he didn't need anyone staring at the scar on his shoulder.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**  
_In which Lestrade isn't buying it_

**Genre**  
Mystery/ suspense

* * *

John went to the fair, he was apparently there to look for anything suspicious, but he wasn't completely buying it, so he was in a foul temper. Sherlock however, did some breaking and entering with Lestrade.

The fair wasn't the greatest thing that John had ever seen, but it was still pretty neat; his temper had faded considerably and it was nice to see people having fun. He felt like a bit of a loser by himself, but he eventually met up with Clara, The Director, Mike and Ed. So they walked around, looking at the stalls, and when it was eight o'clock they joined the massive water fight that was happening in the lake, thankful for the feel of cool water in the heatwave.

Sherlock and Lestrade's evening was more interesting. They went to the fair for a short amount of time, but only to see if there were any people acting suspiciously. There weren't, according to Sherlock, who had done a quick 'scan' of everyone. They were about to leave before Alice and Karen came over to talk to them. Sherlock noticed that Alice's throat was red raw - even though she had hidden it well with a scarf and makeup - she was itching it every few minutes, he assumed that she just had a bad rash or something, no other explanation.

Karen asked if her notebook had interested him, he said yes.

Karen asked if they wanted to help them break into the old warehouse near the river, where it was rumoured Alex Quinn had been murdered. He said yes.

So they made their way to the small warehouse, it was ridiculous to think that anyone could disembowel a girl and cart her bloodied corpse all the way to the other side of town without leaving any evidence. Sherlock and Lestrade played along because it was more interesting than a stupid fair, and Karen seemed to be excited in her own muted way. Alice volunteered to keep watch outside, as she wasn't as interested, and the warehouse was off-limits due to structural concerns, they would probably be arrested if caught.

Sherlock made quick work of the lock and they were inside, there wasn't much, just a few oil drums and the odd sheet of newspaper littering the floor. It was obvious no-one had been murdered here. He looked at Lestrade, who gave a slight shake of his head, Sherlock nodded in agreement. It was around then that the banging noise started.

Sherlock paused, it sounded like very heavy footsteps at first; looking around, it seemed as though he was the only one who could hear it. Lestrade was looking at him – probably thinking Sherlock was deducing something, and Karen was off in a world of her own, spouting garbage theories. It started getting louder and louder, a small succession of banging noises, then silence, then more banging - now louder, it sounded like someone's car was backfiring. Sherlock felt himself pale; had he been cursed? No, that was ridiculous, he was just getting paranoid, and everyone else was playing a trick on him. He absentmindedly scratched his neck as he thought of possibilities.

Looking around the warehouse, he didn't see any speakers. He listened carefully, the noises didn't seem to be coming from any direction, nor were they echoing in the warehouse. Sherlock quickly ran outside and looked around, they didn't sound anything like fireworks, and there wasn't anything outside to blame. Sweat began trickling down his forehead, he hadn't been this panicked since his breakdown during "The Hounds of Baskerville".

Suddenly he was roused from his thoughts by a steady hand on his shoulder. 'Sherlock…' Lestrade began.

'Whatever you're doing, stop it.' Sherlock cut him off, snapping at the Inspector.

'Stop what?' Lestrade looked puzzled.

'Those noises, this is hardly time to be playing practical jokes, _Lestrade._' Sherlock knew that it wasn't Lestrade doing it, though; the man couldn't pull off anything like this, he wasn't the sort to try, anyway. This was the work of a less intellectually feeble Anderson.

'What? There are no noises Sherlock…' Lestrade looked concerned, but cautious.

Sherlock studied his face carefully, he could tell when the DI was lying, and right now he was telling the truth. 'What? Can't you hear them?'

'Good Lord, if you're just making this up…'

'Yes, I'm making it up - well done, there's hope for you yet.' Sherlock flashed what he hoped looked like a patronising smile and ran off down the street. Yes, he flipped out, but this was seriously worrying him - he was, for possibly the first (well, second) time in his life, afraid. He had to find John.

Back at the warehouse, a stunned Greg Lestrade stood outside; he barely noticed Karen and Alice behind him, asking what had just happened. He wasn't buying it, something had scared Sherlock – no actor could make himself go pale and sweaty like that. He wished the two women farewell and began the slow walk back home; he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight; thinking that someone could be brutally murdering Sherlock right at this moment set his teeth on edge.

'Why did that idiot run off?' Lestrade growled to himself before calling a cab to take him to Sherlock's house. He needed to be sure the insufferable git was alright.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**  
_In which the victims are found_

**Genre**  
Suspense/ Mystery/ horror

* * *

Thank you to my two lovely reviewers! **Thelittlestoryteller** and **Ulura**! You guys seriously made my day and I'm so glad you're enjoying it!

* * *

Lestrade, John and Sherlock all survived to see another day; did that mean they were safe? Obviously not, the case wasn't over yet.

Sherlock, being himself, had neglected to tell John about the warehouse, but he wrote about it in Mycroft's "Journal" the same way he wrote everything in there – reluctantly, with a scowl on his face. John wrote about his day there too, he honestly didn't see how it would help, but as Sherlock had told him before: _'the little details are by far the most important'_. So John believed him, especially as that particular case was solved by the small scratches on the side of the victim's shoe and the paperclip in his pocket. But that's a story for another day.

What was far more exciting right now was that the next victims had been found. No, that was not a continuity error; Alice Browning and Karen Tran had been **found** dead this time; which… _is_ a slight continuity error when you think about it.

John breathed a small sigh of relief when Sherlock told him the news, which he felt absolutely awful about afterwards - they were nice people, but there was something wrong. 'Wait, you said they were _found_, I thought one died, and one disappeared?'

'Yes, it _seems_ the pattern is broken. But my theory is that it was simply a different pattern all along.' Sherlock's tone made John feel like he was being obtuse, maybe he was.

'What?' A different pattern? John could only see the one, it was simple enough.

'Oh come on John, one dies – one disappears; so if two die…'

'Two disappear…' John paled; there was a long silence before Sherlock started talking again.

'We're not allowed at the crime scene, but an acquaintance of mine is there, I've requested that he take note of any small details he notices, and he's sneaking us in to see the bodies tonight.'

John was far too distracted to hear Sherlock, _two disappear…_

_Sherlock and John? _

_John and Lestrade?_

_Sherlock and Lestrade?_


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**  
_In which Sherlock __**finally**__ does some detective work_

**Genre**  
Crime/ suspense

* * *

So they ended up in the forensics lab of the local police station, John waited outside, he was okay with blood and gore normally, but he didn't quite think he could look at the dead bodies of two women he had known while alive. He had helped Sherlock on a case like that once, where they had failed to help a man called Hilton Cubitt and his young wife Elsie, the memory had haunted him for weeks afterwards – it still did sometimes – it reminded him of seeing his friends die in Afghanistan. So he sat in the lonely corridor, the nervous tapping of his shoes on the linoleum his only company.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was as excitable as a child on Christmas morning; John could see a spring in his step as they approached the Riverview police station, Sherlock whipping his coat off to accommodate the hot weather. According to Officer Wells, Karen had been stuffed inside an oil drum and burned up in the mountains, they found her because of the smoke. What business she had up there, or if she had been kidnapped, was up to Sherlock to find out.

…_there wasn't much, just a few oil drums and the odd sheet of newspaper…_

Alice however, had apparently clawed at her throat, only stopping once she was too weak to continue, and died from blood loss after hitting an artery; 'We suspected drugs, but we couldn't find anything of the sort.' Wells had told Sherlock when he noticed the consulting detective checking her for needle marks. Her blood soaked body was found outside the warehouse they had broken into the day before.

_Sherlock noticed that Alice's throat was red raw - even though she had hidden it well with a scarf and Band-Aids - and she was itching it every few minutes…_

Wells left him alone to look at the bodies; Alice first:  
She used both hands – there was blood and flesh still stuck in clots under her fingernails; she'd been at least somewhat aware of what she was doing – she had pulled her scarf off; she had been scratching at her throat prior to the night she died – there were some healed-up scratches on her neck; she hadn't wanted to die – she had an expression of pain, panic and fear on her face; she hadn't left the warehouse, and died about ten minutes after Sherlock and Lestrade had left, according to the forensics.

…_had he been cursed? No, that was ridiculous, he was just getting paranoid, and everyone else was playing a trick on him… _

Well, there goes that theory.

Next was Karen, but he couldn't get anything out of the few remaining pieces of scrap metal and charred splinters of bone. Bodies were his area of expertise, not… this. Sherlock was getting annoyed; he had found barely anything on the bodies, but that was still enough to cancel out almost all of his theories. Now the only one left was that the curse actually existed. No murderer could hold Alice down, grab her hands, and use them to kill her. Not without causing bruises at least. Sherlock wasn't aware that he was grinding his teeth, he had liked the challenge at first, but this was getting _ridiculous._

He walked around to one of the tables to pick up the mug of coffee Wells had gotten him, then paused. Either he was getting uncharacteristically paranoid, or he really did hear a third footstep behind him. Like when someone inexperienced was tailing him, and they would accidentally take a step before they realised Sherlock had stopped walking.

"…_but only a week or so after I'd moved; I started hearing a third footstep behind me whenever I stopped walking…"_

He looked around; it was about two in the morning, there was no-one in the building except John and himself. There was no way anyone would be tailing him in the three steps it took to get to the table anyway, much less inside the miniature forensics lab – where there were no hiding spots (sans the fume cupboard, but that was a ridiculously bad idea).

_It's just paranoia, just paranoia and sleep deprivation… _He chanted mentally. Tightening his grip around the coffee mug, knuckles whitening, he tensed every muscle in his body - then chucked the mug against the wall, it sprayed coffee around the room before smashing; somewhat satisfying, not entirely, though. He stomped across the room to the table where all of the case files and notes were, ignoring the footsteps behind him. He looked at the files for a second with a vicious scowl on his face, then swiped the whole lot off the table with a yell.

He took a deep breath.

**Theories: **  
It was a curse  
the murderer had mind-controlling capabilities  
it was one big bloody unlikely coincidence  
Moriarty was back  
someone was tampering with the bodies  
it was drugs; but the idiots in forensics hadn't done their job correctly.

_Eliminate the impossible…_

A smile crept onto Sherlock's face as he picked up a microscope and some other equipment out of the cupboards. Time to test those last two theories, then.

Sherlock was back on track.


	19. Chapter 18

**Note: I don't know much about drugs or withdrawal, and I can't go on the internet without murdering half of my family first, so… I've guessed, relied on my not-to-be-entirely-trusted memory and tried to make it general where I can. Forgiveness please?**

* * *

**Chapter 18**  
_In which Sherlock is a bloody idiot_

**Genre**  
Unknown

* * *

So far, Sherlock had made a bit of progress, but it was hard to do much when his brain was feeling as sluggish as it did. He had confirmed that Alice had indeed clawed at her throat with her own hands, the blood and tissue samples under her nails matched her exactly, and the blood had dried to the extent that it should have; according to an experiment John had found on the kitchen table not so long ago. He had also tested her blood for every kind of drug he knew; all of the results came back negative.

Sherlock had heard about drugs that caused hallucinations; but never any that caused the user to claw at their own throat until death. He had also heard stories of people who thought that bugs were crawling under their skin; then tried to extract them with a knife.

"…_and maggots started coming out of the wound with the blood. I panicked and started scratching at it to try and get them out… and I could feel them squirming under my skin, and…"_

Sherlock paused. _Oh._

He was such a bloody idiot! Why didn't he think of this sooner!

Theory: Alice Browning was either using drugs or was a recovering addict; back when she moved towns, she was cut off from her supplier and so went through the hell that Sherlock himself had experienced a few years ago…

"_I lost my appetite, I felt something watching over me when I slept, I soon became depressed and paranoid and I think I started seeing things."_

…Then she came back, an ex-user; but relapsed and went through the withdrawal again… _coincidentally on the night of the fair,_ _when she had shown no symptoms of drug withdrawal,_ _not even to Sherlock's careful eye._

Sherlock groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Well, he was right in one way at least, he was a bloody idiot.


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19  
**_In which it is all going downhill_

**Genre  
**Horror/ suspense

* * *

Sherlock packed up his things and walked out of the small police station at around four in the morning. He was surprised when he didn't see John outside waiting for him, John always waited for him, why was this any different? Actually, John hadn't even gone in to look at the bodies at all; why? What had he been doing while Sherlock was in there?

Sherlock shook his head to clear out all these unwelcome thoughts as he left the station, feeling the hot, stuffy night air on his face, (it seemed this heatwave was going to last a while), John would have a good reason for leaving early. Lord, he was getting _so bloody paranoid_ on this case and it wasn't doing anyone any good.

He decided against a cab - he needed the air, his head felt all… thick and gooey. Was this how normal people's brains felt? No wonder they were all so idiotic (probably why he hadn't made much progress). He walked the familiar route back to the house, texting Lestrade the new information he had gained that evening – it was a disturbingly short message.

He eventually made it back to the house at around five; it seemed John had left for work earlier than usual. He hung his coat up on the hook in the hallway and walked into the kitchen. On the counter there was a plate with a salad sandwich on it covered in cling wrap; a sticky note attached to the top:

_Sherlock, _(The idiot should have used his fake name, what if someone had broken in?)  
_I've stolen your laptop, you're not getting it back until you eat this.  
John_

Sherlock scowled, another of John's pathetic attempts at getting Sherlock to eat; his laptop was probably at Lestrade's - he could get it back with a little breaking and entering, but eating the sandwich was quicker. So he unwrapped it and slowly started eating, however, he only got about three bites in before he felt a sharp pain inside his mouth. He put the sandwich down on the plate and covered his mouth with his hand before rushing over to the counter and spitting its contents into the sink.

He tasted the all-too familiar metallic tang of blood on his tongue. Looking down into the sink, it seemed that there wasn't much, as he couldn't see any blood in the half-chewed food; but something shiny caught his eye. He reached into the sink and picked it out, then stopped short.

A small sewing needle was in the food; Just small enough to swallow, but very easy to detect when still in the mouth.

Had John been trying to kill him?


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**  
_In which Sherlock can't think straight_

**Genre**  
Horror

* * *

No.

No no no no nononononono…

Sherlock tried to stay calm, he really did. Nevertheless, he felt his pulse quicken as he stumbled backwards until his back hit the bench opposite the sink. Still staring in shock at the needle pinched in his fingers, he sank down into a sitting position against the faux wood of the bench door. It took a few minutes for him to calm down into a more rational frame of mind, even then he couldn't think straight. He didn't notice his phone chime with a new message.

Possibilities:  
John was trying to kill him  
Moriarty was back, and trying to make John look like a bad guy, like he had done to Sherlock a few years back.  
Someone else had broken into the house, and tried to do the same.  
The sandwich was John's, but someone else had broken in and planted the needle.

Ok, that was a start, now gather data:

**The post-it-note: **Faded yellow colour, the same notes John had given Sherlock to put on anything in the fridge that shouldn't be eaten (Sherlock obviously didn't use them).

**The writing on the post-it-note: **Dark blue ballpoint pen, the same brand as the one John kept in his pocket 24/7, Same handwriting as John – Sherlock recognised the small flourish on the 'J' and the lack of dots on the 'i's. Flipping it over, he saw the small dents the writing had made in the note, slightly deeper on the lower half of the 'r's. Yes, this was John's writing.

Possibilities:  
John was trying to kill him  
Moriarty was back, and trying to make John look like a bad guy; like he had done to Sherlock a few years back.  
The sandwich was John's, but someone else had broken in and planted the needle.

He needed more data:

**The sandwich:** Lettuce, mayonnaise, cucumber, carrot, tomato. Looking in the fridge, Sherlock saw that there was enough missing to make the sandwich, the mayonnaise and bread were definitely the same brand as the ones in the house and there was no butter on the sandwich– a habit of John's. Sherlock chucked the hateful sandwich in the bin once he was done with it.

**Dishes around the sink:** including a cutting board with tomato juice on, still wet – done less than an hour ago – and a knife with the same information on it – the sandwich was made here. There was also a mug that had a small amount of coffee left in the bottom – John was a tea drinker, so he had drank it probably because he had spent the night waiting for Sherlock and needed to go to work in the morning. No housebreaker would stop to drink coffee, so John had been here less than half an hour before Sherlock arrived – John would notice the plate if he hadn't put it there, so John must have been the one to make the sandwich.

**The front door and windows: **There were no signs of forced entry whatsoever, the lock on the door was unmarred, there were no broken windows, and the mesh screen that covered the outside of the windows wasn't damaged at all, the windows hadn't even been opened recently.

Possibilities:  
John was trying to kill him  
Moriarty was back, and trying to make John look like a bad guy; like he had done to Sherlock a few years back.

**Mycroft's cameras:** The one in the kitchen hadn't been tampered with or removed; the good thing about Mycroft's cameras was that it was obvious when they had been physically deactivated. But had someone tampered with the footage? Sherlock stood directly in front of one, facing it, he started waving his arms up and down and mouthed: 'Can you see this?' A second later his phone chimed from his pocket, he had a new message.

The old one he had gotten when he was on the kitchen floor read:  
_Did something happen? – MH_

The new one read:  
_Yes, did something happen? - MH_

He sent one back:  
_Apparently not, your cameras haven't been hacked? – SH_

It was a few minutes before he got a reply:

_Just ran a check, nothing has been tampered with – MH_

_Are you convinced someone broke in? - MH_

Ok, calm down, it could be Moriarty still, please let it be Moriarty… he could have put the needle in one of the ingredients or something? No, that was ridiculous. Mycroft would have noticed had Moriarty's men broken into the house at all. But… he would have seen John put a needle into the food, right? No, Mycroft trusted John, he wouldn't be studying his every action, and CCTV footage was always horribly poor quality. Sherlock sat down on the couch slowly and brought his knees up to his chest; curled up in a ball, he didn't notice his breathing had picked up again. _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth..._

Possibilities:  
John was trying to kill him

The colour drained from his face and a bead of sweat rolled down his neck as he sent Mycroft another message.

_Not any more – SH_

* * *

**AN: The plot thickens! Believe me, there is a reason for so much OOC-ness. And that reason is probably obvious.**

**P.S. The needle in the food is from the anime, so is the way Karen died. **


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**  
_In which Sherlock is lying_

**Genre**  
Horror/ Mystery

* * *

Something wasn't right, of that Sherlock was certain. He needed to clear his head, his mind was usually a sharp, precise surgical blade, recently it was a clumsy meat cleaver constructed from alfoil –it crumpled under the mere force of him trying to utilise it. He was missing something; he was being such an idiot.

John was a suspect, John quite possibly tried to kill Sherlock today; Sherlock was still coming to terms with that.

He needed a walk.

He stepped outside, experiencing the full wrath of the heatwave and leaving his coat and scarf behind, he waked along Del Cano road, a sort of direct route from the section of town they currently lived in to the road heading directly into town. Both John and he used this road frequently, but Sherlock was too busy thinking about the case and the day's events to recall this information. Perhaps he had deleted it. Sherlock's leather shoes lightly crunched the grit path underfoot as he walked on, absorbed in his own thoughts. On his right, a low but steep cliff stood between him and simple houses built of wood and brick, most of which were home to young families. On Sherlock's left, there were scattered remains of an old red-rusted fence acting as a margin between the path and the expanse of never-ending forest that coated the mountains like moss on a stone.

Sherlock could still hear the third footstep behind him, only it was suddenly louder today – which wasn't helping his mental state at all - it mimicked the sound Sherlock made, only exaggerated it. On the gravel path, the sound of crunching bone followed the consulting detective every step of the way, and it was becoming ever more impossible to ignore.

He didn't notice the footsteps coming towards him from the front until it was too late.

'Sherlock? Hey.' John was surprised to see his flatmate there, and he gave Sherlock a tired smile.

'Hello John,' Sherlock tried to sound calm, good thing he was a brilliant actor, 'what are you doing out here?'

'Mm? Oh, I just left something behind, that's all. What are you doing out here?' Sherlock ignored his question.

'John, um… you aren't keeping something from me, are you?'

'Huh..? No, I'm not.'

'I… find that hard to believe.' Sherlock's throat was suddenly very itchy.

'What do you mean, Sherlock?' John cocked his head to the side.

'There's something you aren't telling me, right?'

'What about you?' John had a suddenly blank expression on his face, his voice monotone. 'Aren't you lying and keeping secrets from us?'

'Uh-'

'Aren't you lying and keeping secrets from us?' John had a small smile on his face as he repeated his question.

'No I'm not…'

'You're lying.'

'What makes you think I'm lying?' Sherlock was slightly unnerved.

'The day we moved here, you said you just went for a walk, nothing else, right?' It was more a statement than a question.

'Yeah.'

'Then who was that man you were talking to in the car? Neither Lestrade nor I recognise him.' How did John see that? And did he tell Lestrade about it?

'A- a stranger.'

'Why would a stranger need you?'

Sherlock scratched violently at his neck, 'I don't know'

'Then what were you talking about?' John was choosing his words carefully, the same blank expression on his face.

'Nothing of impor-' Sherlock avoided John's unsettling gaze.

'YOU'RE LYING!' John screamed louder than Sherlock had ever heard him, making him jump quite violently. John's face contorted into an expression of pure rage for a split second before resuming his blank mask.

John walked closer until he was centimetres from Sherlock, looking up at him, he smirked. 'You see, just as you have things to hide, so do I.'

'Y-yeah...'

John suddenly rocked back on his heels, eyes closed; Sherlock thought he had fainted for a second before he stood up, head thrown back, laughing maniacally. That was too much, Sherlock shoved him, hard enough to send him sprawling across the footpath – he continued laughing. The sound followed Sherlock the whole way back to the house as he ran.

* * *

**O.o WHAT IS HAPPENING?  
Find out in the next chapter!**

**Btw, this scene was from the anime.**


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**  
_In which Sherlock has a huge epiphany_

**Genre  
**Mystery/ Horror/ Friendship

* * *

**Thelittlestoryteller: Don't worry! It's explained (somewhat) in this chapter. Glad to see you like it, and you're watching Higurashi! You just made my day :)**

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa back at the house, thinking. Sherlock was suspecting that John had developed Multiple Personality Disorder or something; maybe it was the curse?

In other news: Mycroft had finally made himself useful! Yes, you heard right! When Sherlock had walked in through the front door of the house, his Stradivarius was sitting on the coffee table, waiting for its owner.

So Sherlock spent the rest of the day sitting on the couch, five nicotine patches on his arm, playing every song he knew on the beloved instrument. A million voices were swimming around inside his head at once, he gave up trying to organise it and just let what he assumed was impending insanity take over:

"…_every year since the riots stopped, on the night of the fair, or shortly after; a person has been killed…"_

" …_happened without fail every year for four years…" _

"…_victims have always been two people who threatened the peace of the village-"_

"…_another goes missing…"_

"…_a sacrifice of sorts, to stop the curse until the next year."_

"…_victims were police officers trying to investigate!"_

"…_kidnappings, blackmail and murder."_

"…_descriptions didn't fit anyone in the town…"_

"…_riverbank where the peace meeting took place and swim in the river"_

"…_everyone in the village showed up every year, too afraid of the curse to miss it."_

"…_five out of six of them confessed and the body parts were found…"_

"…_researching the deaths as a school project with her friend…"_

"…_had been disembowelled…"_

"…_disappeared along with the paramedics…"_

"…_still haven't been found…"_

"…_were all either investigating the curse, or they were doing something… not good."_

"…_a few days after she moved, she started acting weirdly…"_

"…_suddenly started acting normally again."_

"…_stuff like this happens to people who move away from the town…"_

"…_a third footstep behind me whenever I stopped walking, I lost my appetite, I felt something watching over me when I slept, I soon became depressed and paranoid and I think I started seeing things…"_

…

Wait.

So, Sherlock was most likely cursed, based on Alice's words. The paranoia, the third footstep… the itchy throat… Oh Lord.

Sherlock ran to the bathroom, ripped his scarf off and stared at the mirror. His throat only looked a little better than Alice's had at the fair. He had obviously been scratching it more than he had realised.

Ok, so he was cursed. Right. That was a bit not good, but it was progress, and he was glad he noticed. So, following the symptoms…

Third footstep – Check  
Appetite loss – Hard to tell with Sherlock  
Depression – No  
Paranoia – Check  
Hallucinations - ?

Hallucinations… the conversation with John, the noises in the warehouse, the needle in the sandwich… did the needle actually exist? Or was he hallucinating then?

…_couldn't see any blood in the half-chewed food…_

What had happened to the needle? Did he throw it out with the sandwich? No, he was holding it… then... he had gone to check the sticky note and the needle just… disappeared? Probably a hallucination, then. Okay…

Now, what was the cause of the curse?

He walked back into the lounge room and picked up the Stradivarius; standing at the window, he began to scrape at the tortured instrument. He supposed it was the curse making him this obtuse, (though he was feeling better than he had in previous days) he could feel the answer just out of his grasp.

Sherlock dropped the Stradivarius, whipped out his phone and sent John a message:

John, was I acting strangely this morning? – SH

Yes – JW

How? – SH

You looked like you were about to faint, you weren't making sense and you were stammering, then you shoved me over - JW

What? – SH

What's wrong? – JW

I think I've been cursed – SH

What? How? – JW

Mobile's too insecure, I'll tell you when you get back tonight – SH

No, I'll come back at lunch, ok? - JW

Alright – SH

Should I bring Lestrade? – JW

Good idea – SH

If John were any other person, he wouldn't have told him; but Sherlock believed that John wasn't to blame for this morning's events. Sherlock chucked his phone on the coffee table before picking up his Stradivarius and smiling; the instrument helped him think. This epiphany was good enough evidence of that, or perhaps the curse was weaker today? Satisfied, Sherlock placed the Stradivarius on the table, grabbed Mycroft's "journal" and started to write.

After his lengthy entry, he chucked himself on the couch and tried to sleep.


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**  
_In which Lestrade is… lucky?_

**Genre**  
Horror

* * *

_Ding dong_

Sherlock woke with a start; a quick glance at his mobile told him that it was 1:23pm, who would be calling at this hour? John would be at work, and he wasn't expecting Lestrade. Sherlock slowly sat up and made his way to the door. Taking a quick breath, he turned the lock, the door slammed open, held back only by the chain. Sherlock gasped and jumped back in surprise.

John and Lestrade were behind the door, both looking a little surprised as well. 'Sorry for scaring you like that.' John said, Sherlock couldn't tell if he was mocking him or being serious.

'J-John, Lestrade…' Sherlock scowled. '…what are you doing here?' The two outside glanced at each other, concern written across their features. 'What is it? Am I missing something?'

'Have you eaten lunch yet, Sherlock?' John asked, a fake smile on his face.

'…No.'

'That's good, we bought some takeout in town, if you let us in, we can…'

'A-ah, thanks, but I'm just about to have something, actually.' Why did they want to get in?

'Really?' Lestrade asked.

'Yeah, I- I um…'

'Are you really about to eat, Sherlock?' Lestrade's voice was a monotone that he recognised from somewhere; and his completely blank expression was slightly unnerving.

'Well, I…' Sherlock looked down at his feet.

'Why?' John's voice was soft and quiet, but Sherlock felt chills run down his spine. He looked up at John through the gap between the frame and the door. 'Why are you lying to us?'

'I-I'm not lying..'

'YOU'RE LYING!' They both screamed in unison; startling Sherlock.

'You haven't eaten since this morning, have you? And even then, you didn't eat the whole thing…'

'How did you…?'

_The needle_

'So come on Sherlock; open up' Lestrade reached through the gap in the door and grabbed the chain.

'Go away.' Sherlock rasped.

'Sherlock, open the door…' Lestrade started to pull the chain up, Sherlock couldn't let that happen.

'Please go away.'

'Sherlock…' The chain was almost out.

'GO AWAY!' Sherlock screamed as he shoved the door back with both hands, sandwiching the D.I's fingers. Lestrade howled in pain, Sherlock didn't care.

'SHERLOCK!' John's voice shouted from behind the wood.

'GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!'

Sherlock could see Lestrade's fingers stuck in the door, he was trying to remove them. 'Sherlock, you're hurting Lestrade!' John was pushing back on the door, trying to help the Detective Inspector.

"_You're hurting Lestrade!" _Sherlock froze, and let go of the door; the shock of John's words taking over for a split second, Lestrade pulled his fingers out. Sherlock slammed the door and locked it before running down the hallway, grabbing his coat and sprinting out the back door. Out the front, John was tending to Lestrade's fingers, blood blisters were already forming. 'You're lucky, none broken, I'd like to take you to the Clinic so I can treat them, though.' John made a quick mental note: Sherlock was/ is experiencing mild memory loss.

'I'll be fine, we need to find Sherlock.' Lestrade growled as John lightly probed the injured area. Both of them had heard the rattle as the old metal frame of the back door opened and slammed shut.

'No, don't worry, I called Mycroft before, he's taking care of it now.' John smiled grimly.

Yes, Mycroft had told him over the phone that if Sherlock ran away; he would take over. If Sherlock didn't want to be found, it probably _would_ take Mycroft Holmes to find him.


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**  
_In which it somehow gets worse_

**Genre**  
Horror?

* * *

**I really hope this makes sense, I really do. This has been checked over about 50 times by my beta and I, but there's always a chance... tell me if it doesn't make sense or if there's a plothole.**

* * *

Sherlock ran; he needed to get out of the town. He jumped fences, ran down backstreets, taking care to be stealthy until he heard the familiar crunch of the grit path under his feet, and the crunching of bone behind him. Slowing his pace slightly, he turned and hopped through a small gap in the ancient fence that acted as the only divide between Del Cano road and the forest; ignoring the slight sting as the side of his hand scraped against the rusted metal.

He navigated the labyrinth of trees for a few minutes, now at a jog; not wanting to run any further, suffering from a stitch in his side, but desperately trying to get as far away from the cursed town as possible before he was exhausted. He caved in, and stopped to catch his breath, moving to support himself against a tree with one hand. He had forgotten about the scratch on his hand until he spotted it, a small bead of blood trickled down his hand.

Once he had looked at it, it started itching like mad. Sherlock rejected all forms of common sense and scratched it almost experimentally; he would have stopped, but a single maggot wriggled its way out from under his skin, covered in blood. He watched in horror as it tried to dig itself back into the wound. Suddenly there were dozens of them; he screamed then started desperately clawing at the area, trying to get them out of him. He barely noticed that he was making the wound worse; blood flowed down his arm in small rivulets. Several of the maggots had dropped onto the forest floor, and were writhing about before getting up and crawling off, leaving small trails of Sherlock's blood behind. The amount of them in the wound increased, though, they just kept coming. _Damn, it was so itchy._

"…_scratching at it to try and get them out, but they kept trying to get back in, and it was so itchy, and I could feel them squirming under my skin…"_

Oh, the curse… suddenly, everything came flooding back:

_Mobile's too insecure, I'll tell you when you get back tonight – SH_

_No, I'll come back at lunch, ok? - JW_

_Alright – SH_

_Should I bring Lestrade? – JW_

_Good idea – SH_

Oh Dear Lord, how had he completely forgotten about that? Probably the curse? Damn, this was bad. Sherlock desperately tried to ignore his hand. He was likely going to claw out his throat and die tonight, and he still hadn't solved the case.

Sherlock sighed, this case was too much like The Hounds of Baskerville, only he wasn't enjoying this one.

_Wait… _

_Just like The Hounds of Baskerville, when there had been a dangerous, mind-damaging drug in the fog…_

Think! Go through from the beginning…When had the curse started?

The day of the fair. So, if it were a drug, what had Sherlock been doing that could have caused him to get 'cursed?'

Maybe there was a gas in the warehouse? No, then Lestrade would be cursed too, and he wasn't showing any symptoms.

…_the coffees were ready. Carla and Ed went back inside the café to collect them._

Oh. Of course, that's why they wanted to meet him so desperately. They slipped something into Sherlock's coffee.

But there was still a problem: When Alice moved away, why did she get cursed? She hadn't technically done anything wrong. The drugs theory didn't fit this time… or maybe it did?

"_We suspected drugs, but we couldn't find anything of the sort."_

Unless… the 'curse' was the withdrawal symptoms of a drug?

Except Sherlock had first started showing the symptoms a day after drinking the coffee… maybe the drug was in something else, and whatever had been in the coffee was a sort of 'vaccine' to get the drug out of his system and make the withdrawal worse.

But how had he gotten the drug into his system in the first place?

'_everyone would go down to a point on the riverbank where everyone would swim in the river, it seemed that everyone in the village showed up every year, too afraid of the curse to miss it.'_

It was in the water, so the fair was to get everyone in direct contact with the drugged water, and it was probably in the tap water in small quantities as well. In fact, the drug was probably what stopped the riots and made the town more peaceful.

'_He then moved down to the riverbank and, cupping his hands, took a sample of water and dipped his tongue in - freshwater with a little bit of salt from the river mouth nearby, as well as some other things he couldn't quite put his finger on – taste wasn't his area of deductive expertise.'_

So that's how Sherlock got in contact with the drug, then it slowly (thanks to the amount in the tap water) started getting out of his system, but when Carla and Ed slipped the 'vaccine' into his coffee, he got violently thrown into withdrawal. But what was their motive..? He would have to ask John later, he knew them better than Sherlock did.

Sherlock seemed to be having quite a few epiphanies recently, not that he was complaining. He pulled out his mobile and sent Mycroft a rather lengthy email.

There were still a few minor loopholes that he would have to check out later (not to mention a lot of evidence that he needed to gather), but for now, it was a start, and it made some sense. Sherlock was thinking on this when he heard footsteps behind him.


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**  
_In which it didn't sound promising_

**Genre**  
Suspense, horror

* * *

Thanks to a pounding headache and disorientation, Sherlock had no idea where he was until he recognised the small, dimly-lit bedroom. He was at the house, on the bedroom floor, propped up against the side of Sherlock's bed.

'Sorry about the headache, Mycroft's men weren't exactly gentle.' John was kneeling on the floor next to him. Mycroft's men? Ah, he remembered now, the chase through the woods, then being cornered and clubbed over the back of the head. That wasn't Mycroft's usual style…

Sherlock heard the familiar sound of Lestrade's rubber-soled shoes clomping up the staircase. A sound he should have been familiar with as he had at times spent weeks listening for it in the hopes of a reprieve from boredom. He certainly wasn't bored now. The door creaked open and the harsh light from the hallway filtered in. 'Morning, sunshine.' Lestrade grimaced as he came in and sat down next to John.

'Wh-' Sherlock tried to sit up, but John placed a steady hand on his shoulder as he winced at the pain in the back of his head.

'I think you should stay laid down for a while,' John gave him a small smile. 'Lestrade, did you call The Director?'

'Yeah, he's on his way.'

'Who's The Director?' Sherlock frowned at both of them

John laughed 'Don't you know? When I say Director, I mean The Director.'

'So who is that?' Sherlock yelled. Both John and Lestrade laughed. This somehow unsettled Sherlock, because neither of them were acting weirdly besides the whole "Director" thing. He couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or not. Sherlock put his head in his hands and growled. 'Who the HELL is The Director?' he hissed at both of them.

John and Lestrade exchanged a worried glance. 'I'll be right back,' John stood up and walked out into the hallway; emerging a few moments later with a syringe in hand. 'Ok, just relax Sherlock, keep your eyes on me.'

John was probably trying to hide the fact that Lestrade was edging behind Sherlock. But it was kind of working, the liquid-filled syringe held in John's hand was demanding attention. Suddenly Lestrade grabbed him, and after a few seconds of struggling and Sherlock snarling like a feral animal, Lestrade had the younger man effectively restrained. 'What are you doing? What is that?' Neither of them answered him.

_Clear liquid, clear liquid… what could that be..?_ Sherlock ran through a million possibilities in his head.

_water, insulin, about six different types of hallucinogen, Hydrochloric acid, Nitric acid, Sodium hydroxide, Sulfuric acid, painkillers, around three different illegal drugs, turpentine, nail polish remover, countless different poisons…_

It didn't sound promising.

'Don't move, this is just to calm you down a bit,' John's voice had gone monotone again. Sherlock broke out into a cold sweat.

"_We suspected drugs, but we couldn't find anything of the sort."_

John knelt down in front of him and grabbed Sherlock's forearm, rolling up the sleeve and positioning the needle close to the skin. Sherlock tried to pull away in vain.

'Stop! John, please! STOP IT!'


	27. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**  
_The flashbacks_

**Genre**  
Drama?

* * *

**Warnings: Cheesiness, suicide, death etc.**

* * *

'_I… I can't come down, so we'll… we'll just have to do it like this'_

'_What's going on?'_

'_An apology'_

* * *

Raymond Huxter was heading home after having a few drinks at the fair with his friends. He stopped when he saw a figure in front of him; recognising Celia Lee.

'It won't leave me alone now.' He gave a start when he heard her voice. It sounded… off. Celia walked slowly closer, he saw that she was wearing a nightgown. But in the dark, he didn't see that her neck was red and covered in scratches. 'All those victims... but the town is peaceful now, huh?' She gave him a small smile.

'Uh… yeah.'

Her eyes widened, as if she were surprised by his words, 'wh- what are you talking about?'

'Huh? Are you… ok?'

She jumped violently. 'What do you want?'

'What-?'

'LEAVE ME ALONE!'

She ran forward and shoved him, hard. He fell backwards off the bridge, and only stopped screaming after a sickening crack and a splash was heard. Celia gave a tired laugh as she scratched her bloodied neck, and ran a hand through her hair. She ran away, across the bridge, away from town, ignoring the pain of the gravel path on her bare feet and heading for the swamp.

* * *

'_Why won't you listen to me? I'm just your friend.'_

'_I don't have 'friends'.'_

'…_I wonder why?'_

* * *

Janine stumbled through the junkyard. The disgusting two-day-old package in her arms - good thing she had a strong stomach. A few maggots were crawling around the inside, and flies were buzzing around – She could feel them through the plastic.

She reached the road, thankful that there were no cars on the darkened street. She crossed over warily and broke into a slow jog in the safety of the forest, ignoring the phantom footsteps she could hear behind her - she knew they weren't real.

Reaching her target, and recognising the foul smell of the Riverview swamp, she chucked the package in, watching as the flies inside desperately tried to escape their unfortunate fate, the swamp around it tinged red with Joe Smith's blood and swirling crimson patterns danced in the water. A few small bubbles and the unmistakeable pale bodies of maggots rose to the surface as the air escaped from the bag before everything was sucked back down.

A tear slowly trickled down Janine's face. She smiled as she leaned forwards, spreading her arms slightly before falling into the swamp.

* * *

'_Stop this, you stay here if you want, on your own.'_

'_Alone is what I have, alone protects me.'_

'_Nope. Friends protect people.'_

* * *

Lonnie Dean sat in the back of an ambulance, finally starting to breathe somewhat normally again, no thanks to the ghastly orange blanket draped around her shoulders. She barely noticed the ambulance crew around her, she didn't even notice when they shut the ambulance doors, or when one of them plunged a syringe into her arm. She welcomed the darkness with a grim smile.

* * *

'_What I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends… I've just got one.'_

* * *

Sam sighed and downed the rest of his coffee, not caring that it had gone cold ages ago, before grabbing his coat and heading out of the office. He didn't want to work on Jim's death anymore, they had been friends before Sam had to get rid of him, but he was glad that he was allowed to kill him quickly by poisoning him instead of giving him the vaccine. Nonetheless, waves of guilt washed over him as he rummaged around in his pocket for his keys.

He made up his mind. Leaving his car there, he ran across the bridge where Raymond Huxter had been killed all those years ago, heading in the same direction as Celia had. He neared the same swamp Janine, and many other curse victims had drowned themselves in, and smiled.

* * *

'..._Goodbye John.'_


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**_  
In which it is already too late_

**Genre**  
Angst?/ Horror?

* * *

**Ok, this may be a little confusing, as this chapter's all choppy and awful and no amount of editing could fix it.**

_If it is in italics, Sherlock is saying it_

**If it is in bold, Mycroft is saying it**

If it is normal, one of Mycroft's men is saying it

* * *

Mycroft's mobile rang twice before he answered it. _'M- Mycroft?'_ Sherlock sounded unlike himself, probably on the verge of a mental breakdown. Which was what worried the eldest Holmes, he had received an email from Sherlock earlier, explaining everything.

'**Sherlock? Did something happen?'**

'_Uh…'_

'**What happened?'** Mycroft was even more unsettled at Sherlock's lack of words.

'_Um… I- I…'_

'**Calm down, I got your email - the case is over… for you anyway. I'll send someone down; I'll be there right away too. My men can finish the case.'** It was a shame that Sherlock had no idea what Carla and Ed's motive was, but Mycroft could easily find out later, Sherlock was his first priority at the moment. Mycroft wrote down some instructions and passed them to one of his workers. The man passed him another page a few moments later, written on the back was 'I've sent a car from the local police station, wait five minutes.'

'_Um… That's probably useless… It's- It'll be too late, Oh f-fuck, it already is too late…'_

'**Calm down, Sherlock; what do you mean "it already is too late"?'** Keep him talking, Mycroft. He covered the phone with his hand and yelled, **'That's too long, how many are in the car?'**

'Two, sir!'

'**Call Lestrade or Parsons and get them to go, now! As well as an ambulance!'**

'**Sherlock, hold in there, Lestrade… or one of my men is on his way, it'll be two to three minutes.'**

'_Lestrade… Oh G-God, Lestrade… He's- and John…'_ His brother was actually sobbing now, it had to be the withdrawal symptoms, he hadn't cried like this since… well… ever.

'Sir, There was no response from Gregory Lestrade's mobile or home phone, but the ambulance and Parsons are on their way.' Mycroft paled. _Too late..._ He knew why Sherlock was crying now.

'_I was s-such an idiot, I really thought the c-curse was just a serial killer… But- I miscalculated… eliminate the impossible… an-and whatever remains has to be the t-truth… right?'_ Sherlock laughed nervously.

'**Sherlock, is it, right now… is your…' **There's a horrible sound over the phone, a mixture of strangled cries from his brother and… something else, Mycroft thought with horror that Sherlock was being strangled, but after a few seconds… he realised it was even worse…

_Oh dear lord. _**'Sherlock, you're not- stop!'**

'_Je suis d-d__é__sol__é__ mon fr__è__re…' _Sherlock rasped into the phone, leaning heavily on the now bloodied wall of the house. He slid down and landed on the crimson-soaked carpet with a slight thump.

There was silence.

* * *

**In case you're wondering : There seems to be a general consensus that Mycroft and Sherlock can speak French. I remember something about them speaking French in the books, but I can't trust my brain, and I haven't read the books in a few years... I'd better do something about that. :)**

**And a friendly warning: You've read this chapter, Sherlock doesn't seem to be doing too well at the moment, you know what genre this fanfic is (tragedy/ horror), you know what the rating is (M), it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what I'm warning you about in the next chapter. If you have a soft or weak heart, stop reading here or brace yourself.**


	29. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**_  
In which it all ends_

**Genre**  
Tragedy/ Angst?

* * *

**I'm sorry if the last two chapters have been confusing, hopefully it makes a little more sense now. If it still doesn't, tell me why and I'll fix it up, then re-upload it. :)**

**WARNING: Blood, Graphic character death, Gore.**

* * *

They had been too late.

Mycroft looked around the bedroom, Greg Lestrade lay curled up on the carpet, mangled arms that were once protecting his head were flopped onto the floor. His side was completely crushed, a broken rib protruding from the swollen mess that was once his torso, blood from the wound had sprayed around the room. Both legs had sustained a beating as well, swollen and bruised almost beyond recognition. The Detective Inspector's face was mangled and bloody where it was broken.

_Sherlock grunted as he brought the chair down on Lestrade again, breaking a few ribs, then on his leg, and his arms. He had just stopped protecting his head seconds ago._

Mycroft walked over to get a better look at his brother, he had been crying, unusual for Sherlock – though perfectly reasonable in this situation. He had died the same way Alice Browning had, he clawed at his throat until he hit an artery and died from blood loss. It was almost a good thing Sherlock had died. Almost. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he hadn't.

_Sherlock suddenly stopped mid-swing, watching as John slowly faded into unconsciousness. He dropped the chair next to him, breathing heavily as he sluggishly processed what had just happened._

'_Oh God, oh God…'_

_He looked at a very dead Lestrade, and a very badly wounded and possibly dead John - put his head in his hands and screamed. He dropped to his hands and knees, breathing heavily, trying to ignore the stickiness on his hands and on his shirt, the rusty tang of blood in the air and the salt of tears streaming down his face. The syringe wasn't anywhere to be found, it was another bloody hallucination._

_Looking to his left, the skull was on the floor, having rolled off the chair he had just killed his best friends with, coated in their blood, it was grinning at him. Sherlock stood, picked it up, screamed and chucked it at the wall. _

_Damnit, his neck was so itchy…_

_He pulled out his phone and called Mycroft._

John Watson looked like he had survived slightly longer, possibly thanks to his military training? His back was mottled with bruises and swollen into a misshapen lump, his legs mangled just as much as Lestrade's were, the left one sticking out at an odd angle. His face was less damaged than Lestrade's – Mycroft could see the half-dried tears that were still visible where they had run down his face and onto the carpet. The only way Mycroft could tell he had survived the longest, was because he wasn't curled up like Lestrade, he was slightly spread out across the carpet, one hand resting on Sherlock's forehead.

_John couldn't move his legs because of a spinal injury, and couldn't move his arms or breathe without sharp bursts of pain following his every move. Nonetheless, he dug his fingers into the soggy carpet and slowly began to claw himself closer to Sherlock. John had watched, helpless as his best friend clawed his throat out, while listening to Mycroft's yelling over the phone. Sherlock collapsed on the floor, weak from blood loss, before rolling onto his back, too weak to cry any more, rapidly bleeding to death. Somewhere in his mind, John knew that he couldn't do much to save his friend, but bloody hell he was going to try. _

_Despite his best efforts, he couldn't reach Sherlock's neck, and settled for resting his hand on his friend's forehead in what John hoped was a comforting gesture. 'John, 'm s'rry' Sherlock rasped weakly._

_Slurring, from blood loss. Reality hit John and tears started leaking down his face. 't's not y' fault' _

_John was dying, too._

* * *

**_The end._**


End file.
